


Jealous

by starrystarrytrouble



Category: Open Heart (Visual Novels)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Boss/Employee Relationship, Break Up Talk, Drinking, F/M, First Dates, Jealousy, Late Night Conversations, Late at Night, Love Triangles, Post-Break Up, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27267997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starrystarrytrouble/pseuds/starrystarrytrouble
Summary: When MC goes on a date with someone else, how will Ethan react?Set after the gala, just before Edenbrook closes.**COMPLETE**
Relationships: Ethan Ramsey/Main Character (Open Heart), Main Character (Open Heart)/Original Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 58





	1. Date Night

They’re keeping their distance from each other again. 

He tries to forget but one thought lingers ruthlessly.

He shuffles the paper on his desk and reorders them over and over again. His fingers bristle over the edges so fast that a corner slices into his flesh and he jerks backwards. A harsh reminder he’s still alive. 

His first papercut in years. It feels fitting, he thinks as he glances at the clock.

It’s 7pm. She gets picked up at 7.30pm. 

By her date.

The words taste bitter and he tosses them out of his mind. He didn’t mean to overhear her or find out. But they’re all working in the clinic now, her, her friends and him. 

When a hospital closes all the usual rules go out the window. Privacy is one of them. 

She didn’t sound excited. He reminds himself of that every time the thought reoccurs. He restacks the paperwork and moves onto the next case. 

It’s not really his business, he reminds himself, but it feels like it is. 

Relationships are supposed to be linear. A trajectory of progress. Milestone to milestone. Birthdays and anniversaries. You count the days you’ve been together. You move forward, share apartment keys and memories.

Sure, sometimes it doesn’t work out. 

But that’s not supposed to be with _her_. 

Not when they got this far. 

He sips the cold coffee on his desk in an Edenbrook mug, the sour acidity burns his tongue and he coughs. 

The irony of it. He’s not her boss and after the gala, they’re not even a secret anymore. All of his most violent fears assuaged.

And they still can’t make it work. 

The room stirs, he feels dizzy following the incessant beat of the second hand flicking around on the clockface. 

It’s not his style to push things. He doesn’t want to know who the date is. It doesn’t matter. 

It’s science. 

The absence of one doesn’t equate to the presence of the other. 

She’s on the date because they couldn’t make it work. The date isn’t a variable. 

Not in this hellfire experiment called falling in love.

Because that’s what this is. 

_Love._

He’s known for so long that he doesn’t know how to unlearn it. No-one else has this effect on him, quixotic and irrational, her heady perfume always floating around him, her bewitching smile stamped on his mouth and her body moving against his, a gentle muscle memory. 

Fine tendrils of logic he barely grasped onto after meeting her have vanished altogether.

He tries not to remember but he can’t help it. 

His music is her laughter, his paradise the moments they were wrapped up, utterly tangled, a mess of skin and raw blood pulsing so close to one another it was impossible to distinguish which heartbeat was his and which was hers. 

But he bats it all away. 

7.15pm.

Her heels tap through the hallways and like Pavlov’s dog he is fully alert. 

She’s not supposed to come back to the office. It’s not even an office anymore. 

She stops at the door and knocks and that alone is enough to destroy him. 

She hasn’t ever knocked. Not until recently. She never had to.

His throat tightens as he says come in. 

She gives him some charts to sign. Updates him on her patients before she leaves. 

He is stoic. Professional. Answers her question with his mask on. The one he wears so well. 

Why the fuck is she so warm. 

Maybe because she’s already over it. 

Of course she’s over it, she’s going on a date. 

It’s been a few weeks. 

Enough for anyone to get over him. 

He clears his throat and thanks her, looking straight down so that he doesn’t have to make anymore small talk. Tiny creases dust the corners of her eyes so softly that he wonders if he imagined it. He looks down focused, hoping she’ll go away. 

He’s an arrogant asshole. She deserves better, he thinks to himself as he feels her turn and head towards the door. 

What happens next is astounding. 

He’ll think about it for days. 

He looks up to see her hand on the door handle, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulders, a tight black dress clinging to her every curve, her silhouette so beautiful it takes his breath away. He notices for the first time that she’s already dressed, ready for the night ahead. 

It occurs to him then. 

She’s not wearing the dress for another man, she’s wearing it for him.

For the possibility of ridding herself of him. 

He feels so pathetic he’d toast to that. 

And to prove his point, to really make sure she runs her gorgeous nails into his wound, he hears his voice ring out across the office. 

_We should talk._

He hasn’t said that once in three weeks. Since she stormed out of his apartment when he refused to ask her to stay in Boston. He’s had every chance in the world and he picks now. 

His eyes flick to the clock. 

7.25pm.

She’s going to tell him to fuck off. He’s sure of it. 

He clears his throat when she doesn’t and adds two words. 

_About us._

He makes it crystal clear that he’s being cruel. 

He wants to see the fire in her eyes. 

Anger. Pain. Hatred. 

Anything.

Or just turn and slam the door. 

Anything. 

React. 

She does nothing. 

Her shoulders slump and she leans against the doorframe, throwing her head back and she closes her eyes, soft breath heaving her chest up and down in the most beautiful way. 

She swallows hard and he watches the careful curve of her neck. Her hands lie flat against the door and it takes him a moment to realise she’s leaning against it for support. That without it, she might be on the floor. 

And then it happens.

Her breathing slows, without warning, her eyes flutter open and she looks at him dead in the eye, the green of her irises swimming in his blue with a dark intensity, so magnetic he can’t look away. 

With another moment, it disappears. 

And she does exactly what he expects her to. 

Turns on her heels without another glance. 

It’s 7.30pm.

But the rejection he was craving doesn’t heal anything. 

The look she gave burns into him without warning and he knows. 

This isn’t over. 


	2. Intoxicated

9.30pm

Boston is an ugly city when you’re lonely. 

That’s what he thinks as he tips the last drops of hot scotch down his throat, takes his coat and heads into the fierce winter chill.

Couples line the path like squawking gulls. 

It’s the last thing he wants to think about right now. All the nights they walked this route back to his apartment, his hand in the small of her back, her lips biting lightly at his, intoxicated on more than liquor. 

He hates the thought but for a few weeks he felt 18 again. The 18 he never was. Young and carefree and relaxed. The dumb heady perfume of falling. 

Falling into fucking trouble. 

He shakes his head, runs his hands through his hair. 

It doesn’t feel as soft as when she does it. 

He crosses the roads in zig zags, trips on the gutter, all of his usual poise out the window. 

His mind keeps skipping to that last image of her leaning against his office door.

The flash of anger in her eyes. Exhaustion.

And then something else entirely.

 _Longing_.

That black dress clinging to her the way he wants to. 

The way some other asshole probably is now. 

He looks at his watch.

They’re two hours into their date by now. 

Is that long enough for dinner? 

He’s definitely a little drunk, he must be because as he rubs his temples he realises he can’t figure it out. 

How long did they used to take at dinner?

He remembers the first time they went out a few months ago. When she wore the gold dress. She enticed him with every breath. Rained over him until he could barely think of anything to say that wasn’t a proposition. So unbelievably distracting that they had to leave halfway through dinner. 

The second time after the opera. A late sitting. It was the opposite, they stayed for hours talking in candlelight. She liked to fiddle with his hands. His palm in her gentle fingers, the soft caring circles she drew in the centre. It was second nature. 

His footsteps smash harder into the asphalt. 

He hopes the asshole has dropped her home by now.

He knows how charming she is. How vibrant and interesting. 

The date would have to be a real moron to let her go.

Almost as dumb as the great Ethan Ramsey himself. 

Who even is he?

He wonders if it’s a surgeon, one of Lahela’s friends that take any opportunity to fawn over her. It never bothered him before. She was so unequivocally uninterested, so clear in her focus only on him, that he barely even considered it. 

And he knows even now, she’s only out with someone else to try to forget him. 

But that makes it worse.

Thoughts and images like this dangle themselves in front of him and he haphazardly grabs whatever he can.

She’s not over him. 

Maybe she misses him.

Her date might be boring.

But being alone and being with him are not the same thing. 

He doesn’t want to hold her back but he can’t let her go. 

He still remembers his foolish attempt to get her attention earlier. Suggesting that they talk, when he’d been steadfastly ignoring her for weeks. The veil was thin and pathetic. 

Jealousy is desperation in masquerade. 

His mind is full of whisky and unsolvable puzzles that begin and end with her.

White clear streetlights reflect off the inky black pavement.

Head throbbing, he stops at the newsstand across from his building. 

When he gets to the front of the queue, gold foiled candy bar in hand, he realises the mistake he’s made. 

He doesn’t eat chocolate. 

She does. 

Muscle memory. The worst kind. 

Too frustrated to correct his mistake, he hands over the change and walks upstairs. 

This is what defeat feels like. Not Edenbrook closing. Not his entire career shaking with uncertainty. 

It’s buying a gift for someone who won’t come home. 

His apartment is dark save the red light from the clock flashing at him. 

10pm.

It’s still too early to hope she’s gone home.

He pours another finger of scotch and catches his reflection in the balcony window.

The Back Bay glitters ahead of him. His entire past and future intertwined in this city. The amber liquid soars through his veins and he tells himself that he’ll be fine. 

He was fine in the Amazon. 

Fine for all the weeks after when they were staying away from each other.

Fine for 37 fucking years. 

He tries to empty himself of the vision of her. Her dark hair rustling next to him on the pillow when he awakes. 

It’s not the same. Being without something you’ve never known is not like giving it up once you’ve tasted it. 

This is all his fault. So suck it up. Control what you can control. Well, he can control himself. 

He can start by not checking the clock every ten minutes.

10.15pm. 

Three hours are enough for a date. 

Not unless…

He pours another drinks and empties it in one.

The memory of his fingers running down the curve of her waist, the softness of her skin against his, her breathless moan at his ear are enough for him to smash the glass back onto the counter. 

He’s wasting time. 

It would make no difference, would it?

He contemplates calling her, wonders if she’d even pick up the phone. And what does he say. 

That he wants her to fucking stay in Boston. That she’s not allowed to leave. If he stays, she stays. They’re meant to be together. 

He knows that’s what she wants to hear.

Imagines the green gloss of her eyes widening as she hears his voice utter the words.

And he can’t say it. 

If he cared less, he might say more. 

But he has to put her first.

The silky moon glitters high above the horizon. Traffic soars past the window. Clouds pool in searing hues of silver and the darkest blue.

He wonders if she can see the moon where she is. 

The answer comes to him quicker than he could’ve imagined.

A knock at the door. 

The knock he recognises so clearly.

Impatient and urgent.

It’s her. 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this so long to post and thank you to everyone who's asked about it
> 
> This was originally supposed to be a two-parter but there's another part still to come. 
> 
> MC isn't going to let Ethan off easy...
> 
> I'm @starrystarrytumblr on Tumblr for more fics.


	3. Chose me

He opens the door with the kind of childish eagerness he’s worked a lifetime to kill.

His stomach drops without warning, the gnawing in the pit of his stomach is something he got used to feeling all through her intern year.

_Longing_. And now it’s coupled with despair.

There’s no-one outside.

Two doors down, his neighbour greets her boyfriend with a kiss. He holds a bouquet of red tulips and her eyes shut softly as she wraps her arms around him.

Ethan stares a little longer than he should. He remembers what that feels like, to be held like that, to feel that wanted.

It’s taken a long time, a lifetime, to want something back that much.

It takes him two more hours to go after her. Three glasses of scotch, two unanswered texts and a final exhausted glance at the clock (23:42) and he takes his coat and races out.

What’s are you going to say to her, he’d ask himself if he was sober but he’s not and the urgency that quakes through him takes precedence.

He has to see her. He simply must.

The inky black night is tender with him, the lights are low, and his hazy vision steers through the empty roads with ease.

But then he hits a snag.

He doesn’t remember the way to her apartment.

Which makes perfect sense because why would anything go right tonight.

This is uptown Boston and it would take 30 seconds to call a cab. 5 minutes for it to arrive. He’d be at her front door in fifteen.

The frozen air constricts his throat and in his liquor haze one stubborn thought nags at him.

_What if she’s still with her date?_

It’s late now, nearly midnight. 23.52 his watch says.

_That would mean…that would mean…_

Hell is real.

After the cab drops him off he waits outside far longer than he should. There’s a black sedan parked on the side, exactly where he parked after Danny and Bobby’s memorial. He remembers the warmth of her against him, the reassurance that he hadn’t lost her.

He basks in the memory until he sobers up.

And then he climbs.

He doesn’t hesitate before knocking at her door. He knows that if he waits, he may not do it at all.

Wondering who’s inside is agony. Every part of this is agony.

So he knocks quickly and loudly, demanding attention, and she opens.

For a second they stare at each other before his eyes drift over her.

Hair in a high ponytail, she’s wearing his Hopkins t-shirt, knee high socks and the thick rimmed tortoise-shell glasses she puts on when she thinks no-one will see her.

The scotch is wearing off and he blinks again and again.

If she’s home and so casual then maybe her date didn’t go well?

He tries hard to bury the realisation.

Even harder, the urge to smile.

But somehow, he fails completely and a crooked grin breaks over his face, and he can’t help it because she’s right there in front of him.

And there’s a small sliver of hope burning through him.

He might still be allowed to call himself hers.

What are you doing here, she asks. Her voice is slow, laced with sleep and for a second he holds his breath, doesn’t disturb the silence, because right now, it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

She looks surprised, panicked even, to see him. She brushes a strand of dark hair out of her face and he swears she must be able to hear his heart race.

We need to talk about us, he hears himself say.

“I’ve been…” he begins.

Stupid.

Arrogant.

Foolish.

An asshole.

He wants to finish the sentence but her eyes float up to his with the dewy eyed look she gave him all through her intern year.

The same look that could break him completely.

And then he says something that surprises them both.

“How was your date?”

His tone isn’t bitter, and that’s probably the only thing that stops her shutting the door in his face. He sounds hurt. More hurt than he knew he was.

And in that second the realisation finally hits.

For him, they’re not over. They haven’t even been apart. Not really.

They always make things work.

Her reply sends his blood cold.

“What date?”

She’s looking at him perplexed.

Genuine confusion. As if he told her the clouds were below them, the ground above.

“The date you were excited about. I heard your friends.”

This time he’s bitter and it shows.

She gives him a resigned look, a soft nod of acknowledgement and looks away but swings the door open.

As he follows her in, he wonders if this is the last time he’ll set foot in this apartment.

She slides a glass of water towards Ethan, but the cold night has already rendered him sober, and she leans against the counter, arms folded.

“Jealous?” she asks.

He furrows his brow. Was that the intention? He hopes so, wishes for it in every breath.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

She smirks now, a vague air of victory causing her to stand tall.

“Right. You’ve barely spoken to me in weeks, Ethan, and now suddenly you’re here?”

“It’s unconnected.”

Autopilot kicks in. Asshole mode. It’s protective.

Really, he has no idea why he’s still pretending.

She’s smiling now, wide, entirely unconvinced by this charade.

“If you want to know how the date went, you should ask Sienna.”

“Sienna?” he mouths her name, perplexed.

“She was the one going on a date. We were all talking about her, not me. Still jealous?”

He is actually, he wants to say, because Dr Trinh must’ve had a better night than he did.

“No.”

He feels utter foolish. Every part of him is aware that his conduct has been reprehensible. He plucks words from the air and grabs whatever excuse he can find to prolong this moment.

“We still need to talk about us.”

“No.”

She’s surprisingly abrupt. He looks up from the ground where his eyes have been firmly plastered to meet her gaze and in the second before she wraps herself around him, he notices that there’s no anger at all.

Only warmth.

Her mouth against his is dizzying and fierce and it feels like muscle memory, her waist in his hands, the softness of her dark strands on his shoulder and the perfect way she tessellates with him.

The kiss moves from urgent to tender and when he finally breaks it three words fall from his beestung lips involuntarily.

“I missed you.”

She looks up at him with awe and he promises to remember that look, in this moment, forever.

“I missed you too. Still want to talk about us?”

It’s more of challenge this time, she wants him to try to resist.

The hand that is wrapped around her draws her closer and the other is stroking her neck softly.

Lucky hand, he thinks.

“Not really.”

“Me neither.”

And then like the crest of the ocean, he remembers the gulf between them, the time that he’s wasted again, after saying he wouldn’t. The lesson of a lifetime he doesn’t learn. He needs to be schooled over and over, become fluent in the language of not almost losing her.

“But we should at some point. I should apologise, for everything,” he whispers into her hair as she nips at his collarbone.

He glances at the kitchen clock.

00.32.

A new day.

He looks down at the way she fits against him, the softness of her form, the skin and bones and cells he’s so used to seeing as a doctor brought to life into something so magical.

It’s equal parts enchanting and bewildering.

“How about for now, you don’t tell me, you show me,” she says gently.

He can live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this wild ride :)
> 
> \- Ruby xoxo


End file.
